Shots

The Sun retreated for the day, and centuries of precious metal rushed in.

A pop of humidity had supercharged the soil, transmuting the tech-flecked glens into neon odeons. The land had suffered for its beauty, by dissolving the heaviest of industry in the slowest of motion. It was as if the metallicized terrain was jealous of the sky, and had plotted thousands of years for one night of luminous revenge.

After dark, this contest came to a head. The towpath heaved as the night scrapple smushed itself for a glimpse of the marquee. It was Life versus Entropy, and Entropy’s regent was Antares. The supernova festered a septic red, seeping into the river and clearings.

Life showed up boasting the usual lunar spectacular. Deep in the firmament, the Moon tried its most to outshine Antares.

But, as the entire universe knows, everything succumbs to Entropy.

 

Tippi and Lina-2 ran. They didn’t get far.

The Cute Pals stood on the towpath, facing south. The riverbanks bristled with bugs, but they weren’t the only spectators. Across the Lenapewihittuk, underneath the kibitz of moths and gnats, watched ten million eyes unblinking: Leviathan.

The megacolony crowded the western towpath. The ten million eyes kept their distance, but the worst of them didn’t.

The Archangel and The Prince of Scum skulked on the eastern causeway, blocking all passage. It took the royals five minutes to cut them off.

Father squirted over his courtiers, his sunken nostrils expelling aerosol dictates. At his flank fussed his daughter. Big Rehoboth’s bucket was still on her head.

The Prince of Scum gummed on his spoiling throne of shark steak. His expression was furtive and gauzy, as if he expected the pig to levitate and pluck out his vas deferens. Tippi could barely read this creature, but if he held concern, it was tempered by his fly-speckled dais.

With ashen eyes, The Archangel pawed towards the pig. Unlike her sisters, there was no levity in her stride.

My sister was supposed to take care of this.

Tippi’s skull reverberated with Ioke and Tanit, the seraphim pale.

Gerasa was supposed to take care of you.

Too exhausted to escape, Lil’ Commodus channeled Large Caligula. She wasn’t too addled for sass.

“What a coincidence,” replied Tippi. “Gerasa told me the exact same thing.”

The Archangel’s mouth slackened, and her fat tongue rolled out like a duodenum regurgitated.

SHE DID WHAT?

“You knew she hated all this.”

How dare you speak for our sister?

“I’m one teacup hypermini. Why’d you bring your army?”

The Archangel sputtered, unaccustomed to back talk.

The cruelty! The gall! Benighted coprolite, questioning our Father’s will!

“Tippi, what’s happening?” whispered Lina-2. “Why aren’t they advancing?”

“Uh, I might’ve been exposed to a synthetic mutagen, or a mycointelligence, or a possessed algorithm, or something. Truth is, I have no idea, you were in the berries.”

“I see,” said Lina-2. “Let’s revisit this conversation on a less precarious occasion.”

“I would’ve mentioned it earlier, but I was sneezing. Also, I can feel my hippocampus rewiring itself.”

While the royals harrumphed, Tippi spun to the megacolony. The pig had no experience with public speaking, but that didn’t matter, because she was almost assuredly about to die.

“Hello, uh, rats? My roommate once told me about a dead guy named Mike Christ. Historians said he lived in a cabana. Now, I don’t know much about cabanas or übermenschen, but Mike Christ was famous for saying stuff like, ‘If you don’t account for the misery of the small, you get the misery of all, so shots are on me.’ I guess what I’m saying this is: do any of you know what ‘shots’ are? Because I, for one, do not.”

Ten million eyes stared at Tippi, agog.

What inane treacle is this? brayed The Archangel.

The pig allowed herself a mulligan.

“Okay, let’s start over. Listen up, you rats! My name is Tippi, and it’s come to my attention that none of you are thriving! In fact, the only one who seems to be happy is that, um, him? What is he? A rat? A yam? Could someone tell me his deal?”

The only audible reaction came from the Prince of Scum. He spritzed his harem with putrid effluvia, and the pig wondered if she was cut out for stirring oratory.

What smarm has Gerasa foisted upon us? screamed The Archangel.

The seraphim pale roared towards Tippi at a murderous speed.

Our sister has blessed an outsider, trilled Ioke.

The Mark was not yours to receive, sniffed Tanit.

By the time she chose to bolt, Tippi saw an unending wave of throat molars.

Blasphemer! accused Ioke.

Usurper! condemned Tanit.

The pig shut her eyes.

From out of the aether, she heard Xoz.

“One frigate?” he chuckled. “That’s when I go in.”

The pig withdrew, to the dewy narrows of her own elasticized brainpan.

Go in.

She felt the supernova’s molten aura wash over her body.

Antares belongs to you.

The little pig opened her eyes.

They were red.

From a traditionally piggy 310° angle, Endo and Endive, The Quartzhammers beheld the world for the first time.

ABSOLUTELY NOT, they said.

With an unergonomic swerve, The Archangel’s neck wrenched up.

“Kuuugh,” she choked.

The rat was frozen on her hindquarters. Her spine arched sickly, and her front claws sliced air.

DOWN, said The Quartzhammers.

The rat clattered backwards, her bucket hitting the towpath with a GLONK.

Ioke and Tanit slithered out of their stupor.

Tippi prowled forward, sclerae incinerating.

We came out here to save our friend, announced Endive.

And you are making our task needlessly difficult, growled Endo.

The Archangel mewled so pitifully, the pig wondered how this rodent ever rose through the ranks. But she was short on mercy, and shredded The Queen Motherless with a glare.

Here, said Endive. Drink our fear.

The Quartzhammers slammed the seraphim, pummeling them with painful memories.

You are drowning. You are clumsy. You are lost.

The Archangel clawed at her bucket, frantic talons streaking metal.

You are falling. You are weak. You are a mediocre orca.

Shut up shut up shut up, whimpered Ioke.

Father never said this could happen! sniveled Tanit.

Your dad sucks, said Endo.

This is a nightmare! jabbered Ioke.

No, we live every day in a tolerable purgatory, quipped Endive.

Welcome to the year 12,000, drawled Endo.

Everybody’s somebody to you, until they aren’t, sighed Endive.

As if you weren’t going to kill Gerasa someday, anyway, excoriated Endo.

The rat crawled towards her tormentor, radiating hate and slobber.

It’s easier to sell mismanagement with conquest, scoffed Endive.

It’s easier to sell bad ideas with a body count, cooed Endo.

you. are. ruining. everything, wheezed the seraphim.

Isn’t that the point? laughed Endo.

Seriously, what’s left? asked Endive.

Gerasa told us to kill you, said Endo. But we’re too classy for that.

We’re the 250th anniversary, you see, explained Endive. Instead, we’re going to disassemble your tatty little empire.

And don’t think you’re special, chided Endo. Empire is intrinsically tatty.

Fresh meat for old flesh, said Endive.

Tedious! tutted Endo.

So be a dear, said The Quartzhammers. AND GET OUT OF OUR FUCKING WAY.

In a puppet’s judder, The Archangel toddled off.

Tippi aimed The Quartzhammers at The Prince and his cohort.

“There’s a mulberry bush north of here,” she said. “The berries are tasteless, but I’ve had worse. Everybody go forage, except him.“

Entourage sprinting, the broodmothers shot into the dark, leaving The Prince of Scum fuming and farting.

“Qwaaap!” he bellowed, belly-side up.

With The Quartzhammers busy, the seraphim pale broke free long enough to beckon Leviathan. The megacolony had witnessed her humbling hushed.

Look at our Father! burbled Ioke, through a dribble of tears.

Kill her, now! shrieked Tanit.

Tippi turned to the horde gathered on the river.

“Hello, again!” she said. “Who actually wants to be here?”

IGNORE HER! wept Tanit.

You are too loud, said Endo.

Paws a-twitch, The Archangel slid the bucket over her muzzle, and yelled into her own face.

“As I was saying,” said the pig. “Who actually wants to do this?”

Ten million eyes blinked quizzical, until someone piped up.

I don’t, squeaked someone.

On the faraway shore, Tippi saw the spectral outline of a young rat, crouched on a branch.

“Go on,” said Tippi. “I’m listening.”

I don’t want to do this anymore, said the rat, tremulous.

“Why not?” asked Tippi.

My mother joined the shark hunt this morning. She never came back.

“I’m sorry,” said Tippi.

She might be lost, but she’s never been gone this long.

“What’s your name?”

I don’t have a name, said the rat. Only the sisters get names.

“Really?” said the pig. “That doesn’t sound right.”

None of us have names, not even my little brothers.

The rat motioned with her tail. Tippi saw two woozy pups in a snuggle pile.

“Everyone deserves a name,” said Tippi. “Would you like one?”

I suppose, mulled the rat. What’d you have in mind?

“How about ‘Peaches?’ It’s a stonefruit. I’ve had maybe three peaches in my life. Let me tell you, they are nice.”

I like the sound of that! said Peaches, freshly anointed.

“Just don’t eat the seeds or pits,” warned Tippi.

Could you name my baby brothers, too?

“Sure!” said Tippi. She addressed the fuzzier one. “I saw an acorn for the first time yesterday. Do you like ‘Acorn’ as a name?”

I do! said Acorn. Someday I’ll wear an acorn on my head, just like you!

“This isn’t an acorn, Acorn!” giggled Tippi. “This is a hat!”

Wow! said Acorn. A hat!

“Tippi!” buzzed Lina. “What the hell is going on? Why aren’t we dead?”

“Lina, I think I found a way out of this. I need you to trust me.”

“I am merely reminding you that we remain in an incalculable amount of danger.”

“Noted,” said Tippi. “I just need to name another rat.”

“Huh?” said Lina.

I already know my name, said the littlest brother.

“What is it?” asked Tippi.

I want to be called Gravel, said the pup. Because I’m tough and tiny.

“Gravel!” said Tippi. “A fine choice!”

Thank you, yawned Gravel.

As The Archangel yowled, the entire megacolony watched Tippi and Gravel discuss their love of small rocks, for several impenetrable minutes.

“And that’s why a grain of sand makes for a subpar pebble,” concluded the pig.

Agreed! said Gravel.

“Tippi, what is happening?” beeped Lina.

“Uh, diplomacy? Wrapping it up.”

Shuffling her hooves, Tippi looked to Leviathan.

“Well, rats, I’ve preferred our past few minutes to our past few hours. Therefore, I’m going to go do something else now, and I encourage you to do the same, and by ‘the same’ I mean ‘something totally different, somewhere else.’ So, by all means, feel free to pursue your own evenings while not stomping on your neighbor’s-“

I want a name, too! said a rat in the back.

Don’t forget me! burped another.

Moments later, all of the rats were demanding names.

I don’t know if I want to be called Dirty or Messy! said one.

“You could go with both?” tried Tippi.

I never thought of that! said Messy Dirty.

The pig didn’t have time to title everybody, so she cited an exemplar of the craft.

“You know, you could follow our friend Gravel here and name yourselves.”

The megacolony fluttered with consensus.

What a fine idea! said the rats.

My name is Rat! said somebody.

Hey, I’m Rat too! said someone else.

I’m Twig!

I’m Hair!

I’m also Rat!

My name is Cabana!

None of you can pick Peaches, said Peaches. Tippi gave me that one.

Fair enough! said Leviathan.

Tippi watched in awe, as the rats hollered into the night. Four days ago, the pig had two friends. Now, she had five million. Things certainly moved fast outdoors.

Things were moving so fast, Tippi didn’t notice The Prince of Scum sidewind out of the brush, and rear back his crater face.

“Tippi!” shouted Lina.

The pig flew into the air.

Tippi! yelped Peaches.

She felt a bruise spiderweb across her ribs.

TIPPI! cried the megacolony.

She landed on a bad stretch of sand. Her memory crown was intact, but she was having trouble breathing.

archangel: gerasa: archangel: gerasa

The Prince of Scum glowered down from the causeway. His eyes retracted in a gormley staccato, and a rageful arrhythmia had overcome his sluggy muscles.

arkhangelsk: jerash: arkhangelsk: jerash

His recessed face belched out caracoles in choking doses. His gullet was stuffed with guillotines of keratin.

“His mouth!” shouted Lina-2. “It all makes sense now!”

For the first time in lifetimes, Father was forced to micromanage. With a noxious huff, he slithered away, leaving the pig reeling by the reeds.

“I know what Leviathan really is!” gasped the clone.

Tippi tried to follow Father, but her chin hit the sand, notching another scrape.

“Rats,” she winced.

“They’re worse than that!” said Achilles.

Tippi was too screwed up to address the entire megacolony, so she zeroed in on Peaches.

“Grab your brothers and go,” coughed Tippi. “Tell everybody around you. Go!”

Where? fretted Peaches.

“Run, as fast you can. Something bad is coming. I can feel it, down to my dendrites.”

What about you?

“I’ll be fine. Word is I’m going to live forever.”

Be safe, Tippi!

Peaches and her brothers vanished into the woods, but not before alerting their neighbors. Tippi’s warning fanned across the megacolony, and masses of Ratti scattered.

“The big ones, they aren’t rats at all!” continued Lina-2. “I mean, yes, Rattus norvegicus minos is the substrate, but there’s so much more to it!”

The pig tried to listen as she trudged back to the towpath.

“When we first saw those larger specimens, I thought they looked familiar: their retractable eyes, their fluency with water, their teeth, the ritualistic pursuit of Carcharhinus leucas-”

Lina was cut off by an otherworldly howl.

FATHER! DON’T DO THIS!

It was The Archangel, begging for her life.

pathetic: failure: failure: pathetic

The pig limped uphill as Lina kept prattling.

“They’re barely rats at all!” explained Achilles. “They’re displaying an ahistorical melange of traits typical of the late cetaceans!”

“Cetaceans?”

“Whales, Tippi!” shouted Lina. “Those rats are filthy with whale DNA!”

“But why would-”

Tippi’s thoughts evaporated.

She saw the bucket in the mud, and father and daughter entwined.

The Archangel was holding The Prince, mouth to mouth, hoisting his wriggling form off the ground. Her whole head was wedged into his maw.

PLEASE!

The Prince of Scum snorted a chastening haze.

confess confess confess confess

Like a gorging constrictor, The Prince clung to his daughter’s skull. Her bottom teeth held Father in place, and The Archangel drew great torrents of blood.

NO!

confess confess confess confess

Glomming to his daughter, Father opened his jaws wider, revealing a prehensile and barbed tongue.

“His lingua is made entirely of gray matter,” said Lina.

“Did whales have those?”

“No.”

As The Prince’s tongue unspooled, The Archangel quivered a final plea.

I did everything you asked.

never: enough

This isn’t fair.

now we recite the poetry of laceration

The Archangel closed her eyes.

I should have stayed Harmonious.

With a splash of cerebrospinal gravy, the tongue shot through her right socket, shucking Ioke.

The rat’s head shot back, as the lingua wiggled through her brain tissue and burst through her left eye, dislodging Tanit.

The Prince’s tongue looped around, again and again, tunneling from right socket to left, until he’d woven a winch through her skull.

With a ruddy gush, The Prince’s head broke off his body. His torso plopped off, spilling hot organs on the grass.

Father’s head sloughed off its dermis, leaving his daughter’s face encased in naked brain and assorted gore. A thick cord of viscera jutted out of the cerebrum. This sticky skein swung limp and low, carrying The Prince’s abandoned skull. The skull swung, absent its mandible, like a disgusting pendulum.

The fleshwork monstrosity arose. Two white eyes flopped, mad and unplucked, as Pakicetus, The Ghost Whale assessed its prey.

Pork.

 

Outro: Danzig – “She Rides”